


The Most Beautiful Bitter Fruit

by LivingSilver



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-15 00:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11794770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivingSilver/pseuds/LivingSilver
Summary: Collins' heart is no longer in his chest. Its in a Nazi POW camp somewhere in Europe. Or maybe it fell right out of his chest and in to the English Channel along with his plane.





	The Most Beautiful Bitter Fruit

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so, this definitely isn't as developed as I would like it to be, but also I've been dying to contribute to the fandom. Everything quoted in italics are lyrics from The Most Beautiful Bitter Fruit by La Dispute; I do not own or claim to own them.

Collins tosses anxiously in his bed. This night no different than the others. The retreating glide of Farrier's Spitfire fading into the distance consuming him. He knew he was going to run of fuel. He wasn't going to have enough to come back. To come back home. To come back to him.

 

_"After sundown, before sleeping, I am the worst of me. I am a mess of these_

_Old themes and the murmur of half-dreams whisper seductively and_

_Stage scenes."_

 

And everyday the constant anxiety. Every day that passes he hopes to receive news. That he made it out. That he landed safely on Ally occupied beach. That he got passage. But everyday without news lessens his hope. He can feel it plummeting to the dark pit of his stomach. Dead. Captured. A prisoner of war.  Collins' heart is no longer in his chest. Its in a Nazi POW camp somewhere in Europe. Or maybe it fell right out of his chest and in to the English Channel along with his plane. Two pieces of wreckage never to be recovered. 

_"It’s fear fiction, these visions, caught somewhere between delusion and prophesy._

_What I haven’t done, what I’ve wanted to, and what I fear you have_

_Becomes reality here."_

 

He tries to remember Farrier as he was, rather than imagining him now. Tries to cling to the scent of that sheepskin lined leather bomber jacket. The feel of the collar beneath his fingers as Collins used it to pull him close. His lips tingle with the memory of secret, stolen kisses. Too often fleeting in nature.

 

_"Young bodies, warm skin, perfect symmetry and_

_It’s a moment, harmless. It’s energy._

_It’s like medicine,_

_It’s self-discovery."_

 

Time. His chest clenches. They didn't have enough time. They had never really talked about after. But there was always an unspoken understanding that it would be them. Even after. They would still go on together. Fingers twining. The glimmer of a promise in Farrier's slate blue eyes.

 

_"I only know I never wanted to get left behind."_

 

Some small selfish part of Collins is angry. He could have come back. If he had wanted to. Saved his fuel. Pulled his chute. Drowning. He was drowning. The water flooding the pit of Spitfire. One last glance to the sky. Farrier tipping the wings of his plane towards him. The only good bye he'll ever have. His chest filling with longing like the chill ocean water flooding his Spitfire.

 

_"I want to feel it out. I want to know how it works._

_I want to know if it was worth it to worry,_

_About the ghosts I feared would haunt the memory,_

_About the damage that I’m sure the fear has done to me now._

_I want to know what it is in me that won’t follow through_

_Those nights the instinct takes a hold of me and pushes too._

_Maybe it’s only that I’ve never gotten over you._

 

_Or am I still scared?"_

 

Grief overwhelms Collins at last as it always does. He succumbs to the despair of going on. Existing in this grey fog of life after Farrier. The image of Farrier wasting away in some hell while he _goes on_. He panics. He's going to forget. Not today or tomorrow. But one day the sensation of Farrier's skin brushing against his is going to be muddy and unfocused. The color of his eyes. The sound of his voice. Farrier is going to become a blur behind the stained glass window of time.

 

_"And time can be such a funny thing, always moving to the future_

_Glorifying the past and amplifying the pain in frames and glass._

_So was our touch half as sacred as I’ve made it seem_

_Or just another fabrication of a half-dream?"_

 

In the dark he questions his sanity. His mind a jumble of half dreams and realities. Those fleeting, stolen kisses. The backwards glances. The faintest hint of a smile teasing the corner of Farrier's mouth. It could have been imagined.  Maybe it was.


End file.
